


Resurrection

by BackToSquareRootOfOne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dark, Dark John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, John Watson is Moriarty, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Multi, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Rape/Non-con Elements, awkward brothers, if John has a heart after all, johniarty, maybe some comfort, this is very dark be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9309221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BackToSquareRootOfOne/pseuds/BackToSquareRootOfOne
Summary: Johniarty, in the sense of John is actually Moriarty. That idea has been bothering me ever since we saw the pool scene, and I cannot get it out of my head. Johniarty, in the sense of everything is pretty fucked up and Sherlock will get fucked over so badly. So much hurt. Not even sorry....maybe John has a heart after all. Just maybe.***Note: This is purely fiction, written for the sake of writing it and exploring whatever weird ideas keep popping up in my head. I do not condone or encourage abusive behaviours and/ or relationships in any way, and I don't support any of the behaviours displayed in this story. If you ever need advice or anyone to talk to, feel free to message me.





	1. The Habits of Two Faces

 

 

 

> \- "Darkness lingers in each and every heart. Our everlasting burden is to keep it at bay instead of giving in and allowing it to take over."

 

Sunday afternoon.

It was a casual Sunday afternoon, John chasing after Sherlock chasing after some petty criminal who was involved with other petty criminals in ways only Sherlock understood. The crowded streets of London rushed by whilst the taller man got closer and closer to the anonymous figure, bumping into various peasants and sprinting on irrespective of the smaller man who whispered apologies to the dishevelled bystanders and slowly but steadily fell back. When he finally caught up with Sherlock, the detective was already on the ground, hovering about the figure he had chased down and panting with exertion. It was obvious that a fight had ensued, for Sherlock looked heavily bruised and held himself in a way that suggested some pretty decent punches or kicks to his stomach and ribcage, but at least he had had won the upper hand. John could hear police sirens in the distance and quickly knelt down next to his best friend to help him secure their attacker until Lestrade would arrive. Sherlock was still gasping for air, and apparently in pain, but as he finally shot a look at John, his eyes were glowing with excitement. A great deal of detective work, a great deal of calling in favours, and a great deal of running and fighting. A perfect Sunday evening.

When they finally arrived back at 221B Baker Street, it had already gone dark. Sherlock remarked something incredibly clever whilst he brushed the door open, and both of them chuckled. They were exhausted and euphoric, the last traces of the adrenalin finally leaving their bodies. Sherlock threw his coat away and turned on his heels, only to nearly run into John. Both immediately halted, their eyes locked onto each other. Silence settled for a moment, as John gave Sherlock a soft, warm smile that said so much he could not express in words. Sherlock stared back. It would have been the perfect moment, he thought-

“I'll just... uhm. I'll order some takeaway?” John suggested with a sheepish smile on his face, and Sherlock backed off, mumbling something John couldn't understand.

 

Half an hour later they both sat in the living room, a fire burning in the fireplace and the telly running without anyone taking conscious note of it. They had ordered Chinese food, it was warm and comfortable, and they were mocking each other. Sherlock complained elaborately about the simplicity of the case, uttering a dramatic, agonised groan.

“They don't even try anymore these days,” he said between two bites. “No intricate details that don't add up. No plot twists, no new evidence that completely turns the case, you understand?” He was gesturing with his chopstick and John chuckled. “I just really wish I had a case, a REAL case.”

“Lestrade won't let you get bored out of your mind, Sherlock. Something will come up eventually.” John reassured him, putting his leg up on the couch table. Sherlock had repositioned himself in a caricature of a sitting/hanging position in his chair whilst rambling on about the case. John was barely listening. He just kept staring at Sherlock, a smile on his face.

***

 

When John's phone rang at quarter past twelve he had half dozed off into sleep. He scrambled to get hold of his phone, lest it wake Sherlock. His mad flatmate had fallen asleep in his chair, curled up in a position that had to be uncomfortable at least. Maybe he ought to have John inspect his wounds the next morning.

 

 _How did dear Sherlock like this one? I believe he was pretty enthralled._ JM

 

John sighed and cast a look at the tall figure splashed out in front of him. Enthralled indeed. Sherlock hadn't slept in the four days this case had occupied him, and he would surely not wake until he'd had a good 15 or 16 hour of sleep.

 

 _I told you, no messages when I'm around him. But he was. He's starting to get bored though._ JW

 

 _We might just find something bigger for him to play with, if that's what you want. Keep him distracted ;)_ JM

 

 _I'll keep you posted. But for a few days, just keep your head down. Btw stop texting me._ JW

 

 _You know I'd do anything for you, boss._ XOXO JM

 

John sighed again. With a glance at Sherlock he put his phone aside and got up. For a while he kept looming over his sleeping flatmate, and carefully studied the way Sherlock's rib cage rose with every breath, the way his eyes flickered rapidly under their lids, the way his lips parted just the tiniest bit. For a moment he felt compelled to just bow down and kiss these lips, just a gentle and innocent kiss- he dismissed the thought. He just had to be patient.

He bowed down and carefully put his arms under Sherlock's bent legs and his back. Sherlock was tall but surprisingly light, which wasn't really surprising considering how frequently he disregarded his body's most urgent demands. He was still very tall though, which John wasn't, and it took all of his strength to lift Sherlock up – and immediately put him down again, otherwise both of them would have fallen over. Sherlock startled awake immediately.

“Sorry,” mumbled John whilst he gave Sherlock a sheepish grin. “You better go to bed, sleeping here will give you a cold. And a broken neck.”

“What are you - ...you tried to carry me.” Sherlock simply stated as he started to get up. He looked slightly disoriented, and seemed to be looking for something.

“Short flicker of arrogance, sorry. Seems I overestimated my strength.”

Sherlock had already jumped up, and was heading towards his room. “Old war injury, I've heard,” he said in a mocking tone without turning around. He chuckled about his own joke, and quickly disappeared into his room. 

“Good night to you, too!” John shouted back, but Sherlock didn't - or pretended not to - hear him anymore.

Things quieted down on Baker Street.

***

 

 _Everything's in place, boss. One word and Sherlock will come undone at your hands._ JM

 _Wait for my instructions. I owe you._ JW

 _Never. You own me._ Kisses, JM


	2. Ascendancy

 

 

 

> "Love is the most delicate, addictive and dangerous drug out there. We crave it, we _need_ it just in order to stay alive. It seeps through our system so sweetly that we cannot bear to live without it have we once experienced it. People die for it, just to get their fix."

 

Sherlock was quite an obsessive persona, had in fact ever been. One of the ways in which his neurotic nature expressed itself was a manifold and slightly disturbing set of behaviours. These covered more external patterns of behaviour that included gut-churning experiments with human body parts (and storing them in the fridge), a tendency to conveniently 'forget' household chores (and complain about them not being tended to later) and greeting human emotions with irritation. Another was the exasperated sigh that went along with such experiences. Yet another one was his twitching lips, the left corner or his mouth to be more specific, whenever he encountered an unfamiliar situation. He was doing it right now.

Both of them were leaning over the kitchen table, frozen inmidst whatever move any of them had attempted to make. This was starting to get impractical and, worse, interfere with his work. Sherlock had been scrutinizing some samples of – who knew, but they smelled horrific - found on an obviously murdered victim the police claimed a suicide what idiots– the safety goggles were still on his face. He stared at John, who stared back. Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's lips. The tension in the room was so heavy he could barely breathe.

He had admitted to himself that he had feelings for the doctor long time ago – but yet he was astonished again and again by how deep those feelings went. He had never actually encountered someone whom he trusted with his life, someone whom he'd give his own life for, someone who gave his life some idiotic fragrance of meaning. It was as if John understood some part of Sherlock that he didn't even understand – or recognise – himself; John had come bustling into his life with his cheerful, warm smiles and inconvenient human emotions, and Sherlock wondered if he would ever manage a life without the brave soldier at his side. He probably would, but he couldn't bear the thought.

“...Sherlock” mumbled John in a low voice, and Sherlock took in all of his frame, his posture, the way his Adam's apple moved under the skin of his throat as he swallowed, his laboured breathing. His pupils were dilated. He was obviously aroused.

Sherlock bridged the few inches between their faces, drawing his face closer to John's until their noses poked into each other's cheeks. He could feel John take in a surprised breath, felt the air against his lips, and he felt how much his own lips trembled. Their bodies were pressed up close, and like in a trance he brought up one hand to cup the side of John's head. Finally, finally, John leaned forward and put his lips on Sherlock's.

It was absurd. They were standing at the kitchen table, which was scattered with probes and presumably human remains, and here he was, his flatmate's lips on his. He didn't respond for a second, was merely amazed and mesmerized and – irritated at the same time, but finally he gave in and leaned even closer, shyly drawing his tongue over John's lower lip. John made a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat, a moan that made Sherlock's skin crawl. He felt endorphins and noradrenaline entering his bloodstream – not per sé, but he felt an intense wave of emotion wave over him that finally made him break the kiss with a sob. John's eyes immediately shot open, concern creeping into his face -

“Are you okay, Sherlock?” he asked. Sherlock managed a small smile.

“Just... a bit startled.” He kissed John again, cautiously still, but with more eagerness, which John happily returned.

“Wow. I managed to baffle the great Sherlock Holmes into silence,” John replied as they broke their kiss. His cheeks were flushed, and on his face was the widest grin Sherlock had ever seen – John looked so incredibly happy. Sherlock frowned, but his smile didn't leave his lips. It was beyond him how he could make a good man like John so happy, but at the moment he didn't mind. He didn't mind at all. He leaned in again.

***

 

 _So beloved Sherlock and you finally got it on? I really enjoyed watching you making out like inexperienced school boys. Wish you were that passionate with me._ XOXO JM

 

 _Everyone knows he's a virgin and he knows that I know. He's anxious to get it over with, but I said I'd be willing to wait, give him time._ JW

 

 _What a gentle and understanding partner you are._ JM

***

 

When John awoke the next morning, it was from manifold weird, slightly sexually tainted dreams that centred more or less around his attractive, inexperienced flatmate. Said flatmate was up and about as John finally made it down into the kitchen, sleep still heavy in his eyes. No breakfast, of course not, Sherlock had never been one for tropes. But there was tea, and John thankfully poured himself a cup and went to join Sherlock in the living room.

Sherlock was plucking away at his violin, his eyes closed and a look of concentration engrained in his features. He was so beautiful, John thought to himself. So beautiful, and yet, so lonely.

 

“John.” Sherlock finally said as he had ended and spotted John sitting in the armchair. A slight shade of red crept onto the pale man's face, and he ushered to put his violin away.

“Thanks for the tea.” John said, nodding and shooting a smile across the room. “Glad you've finally got some sleep.”

“Oh, yeah, yes. Sleep.” Sherlock mumbled, looking somewhat distraught. Something seemed to be on his mind, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to face it. It was probably John.

Sherlock continued to roam around the flat without any apparent purpose or aim in mind for another few minutes until finally, finally, he sat down in front of John and looked at his face for the first time.

“John,” he rasped. “About yesterday... If my actions have caused you any inconvenience or I acted too impudent, I-”

John interrupted him, disbelief in his voice. “What? No, no, nonsense. Sherlock, I know this is awkward, but it was definitely mutual. As far as I'm concerned.”

Sherlock still looked weary, but the frown on his face ever so slightly dissolved. He still seemed unnerved, although John couldn't really discern why. “You alright, Sherlock?” He took Sherlock by the arms, concern on his face. Sherlock nodded quickly.

“Sherlock, I hate to leave things like this, but I gotta hurry to get to work. If anything happens, call me, okay? You sure you are alright?”

Sherlock gave him a smile, and moved his face a fraction closer to John's. It took him a while to realise Sherlock was – was hoping for a kiss. It was quick, and awkward, but as John hurried out of the house both of them couldn't help but grin.

***

 

 _What an adorable couple the two of you are. You sure you don't just want to have him tonight?_ JM

 

 _I'd like to keep him waiting just a little longer. He's so anxious, it's just too enticing to watch._ JW

 

 _He's thinking about it right now._ JM

***

 

Sherlock was staring at nothing, hands folded in front of his face and thoughts spinning. Indeed, he was thinking about John, about John's soft lips and gentle caresses, and somehow his mind refused to compute. He ought to have been insanely happy, but instead his mind kept bogging him. Emotions and feelings always were complicated and intricate – not to mention stupid and insignificant – factors that were only an inconvenience to his deductive skills. Nonetheless, the fact that he had fallen for John was an undeniable, slightly uncomfortable insight he had to come to terms with. How were they going to go on after... this?

He closed his eyes. He opened them again and got up. He paced through the living room for a while. He stared at the skull on his fireplace with a blank expression. Moriarty loved every second of it.

***

 

' _Case, SH_ ', the note on the kitchen table said as John came home shortly before dawn. He put the groceries down, frowning slightly. He had given neither Jim nor Sherlock a new case, had in fact hoped both would stay quiet for the next few days. This must have been one of the few cases he was not actually involved in. Those always sparked his interest, because anyone new in town ought to consider their alliances carefully. He dug his phone out of his pockets and dialled Jim's number.


	3. Deep Breath Before the Plunge

> \- "When we least expect it, we may finally catch a glimpse at ourselves."

 

Surprisingly, life went on rather quiet over the next few days. Sherlock was reasonably annoyed since the case had been solved in a matter of hours – or so he thought, but John dutifully listened to Sherlock's complaints and wondered about the comfortable silence that had settled between them. They shared some kisses here and there, some innocent, some rather demanding – until Sherlock broke away and disappeared under some sort of pretence, there were longing looks and soft touches, and John's understanding nodding that yes, he knew. None of them had actually talked about 'them' and what had happened, but neither seemed to care.

***

 

“John,” Sherlock rasped. He was propped up against John with his right hand cautiously caressing the other man's face. He bent down for a kiss. John kissed back.

It was one of their more intense kisses, growing more demanding and at one point John leaned forward and pulled Sherlock closer to him, his arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist and his shoulders. He felt Sherlock smile into the kiss.

 

“...” with a low moan Sherlock broke the kiss again, and irked his face a few inches away so he could stare into John's face. John's hand had wandered to the small of Sherlock's back, and he could feel Sherlock tense ever so slightly under his touch.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Sherlock gave him a wavering smile, shaking his head.

“No, it's okay. I'm fine”, he said. “Just... excited.”

“Sherlock, listen to me.”

John paused and then put both his hands on the other man's head, his eyes locking with Sherlock's. “I won't do anything you don't want, okay? I can wait.”

 

Sherlock uttered some sort of laugh, but it sounded more distressed than amused. “Based on my observations of your prior encounters with various women frequenting your room, I assume you're wrong. I appreciate your intentions, though.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock, shhh. These women weren't you. You are special, so much more special than any of them.” John's face contorted in a grimace of concern, whilst Sherlock's eyes flickered down, avoiding John's.

It took Sherlock quite a while to finally speak. "It's not like... I do want to give you... _that_.” he mumbled. He hurried to say “If that's what you want. I'm not a very physical person, but with you it's -it's okay.” His face turned slightly pink, and John couldn't help but smile.

“You are amazing, Sherlock Holmes.” he smiled softly, and brushed a strand of hair from Sherlock's face. “I can wait. Don't let something like that bother your brilliant mind.”

 

Sherlock gave him a quivering smile, but he still looked uncertain. It was weird to see him like that, so open and vulnerable. John loved every minute of it. He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead, and the detective sighed nearly inaudibly.

***

 

 _Dear Sherlock is conducting online inquiries on the nature of human sexuality. You should see it._ JM

 

 _Maybe I should give him a hint you're not human? He seems really irritated by the results for 'intercourse' and 're-evaluating relationships'. It's hilarious, really. Wish you were here to watch him with me_. JM

 

 _My, my, this really seems to bother dear Sherlock, don't you think? He has been sitting on his chair, thinking, for about an hour now._ JM

 

***

 

About a week had passed, when Sherlock's eyes suddenly flared up with excitement and a rush to act, deduce, and conduct experiments that John hadn't seen in a long time. He suppressed a smile as Sherlock rushed into the living room like the whirlwind he was.

 

“Case, a real _case_. Oh John, this one's the bessst.”

“I don't like that look on your face. I intended to just read my-”

“He's back.” Sherlock almost giggled. John's face fell. “Don't tell me...” he began, but Sherlock interrupted him again.

“Moriarty. Moriarty is back.”

 

John said nothing for a while, turning the thought over in his mind. “... Are you absolutely certain about this?”, he finally asked, and on his face was a far more stern look than Sherlock had anticipated. Also, not in the slightest bit delighted. He could nearly see the wheels working behind John's forehead, the doctor's foreboding of anxiety, and adrenaline, and danger that came with the unholy name of Sherlock's nemesis. Finally, he cleared his throat.

 

“So. The game's on.”

***

 

 _Love the drama. Also, forever grateful to you for reviving me from the dead. You're truly my lord and saviour. XOXO_ JM

***

 


	4. Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual content in this chapter. Might be non-/dub-con, but not as graphic or advanced as in the following chapters. Just be warned, okay? Sherlock is not exactly acting on his own will in this one.

 

> \- "I moved the stars themselves to write a lovenote in the sky."  (Futurama tbh)
> 
>  

Sherlock's mind is still racing. They have acquired a habit of lying next to each other when John falls asleep and Sherlock needs to think, but they have reached some sort of compromise that Sherlock will at least relax for some hours, if not sleep during cases. Usually they curl up in John's bed, John's arm loosely around Sherlock's waist and John's head in the curve of Sherlock's neck until John falls asleep. Sherlock's mind is too occupied to succumb to sleep, but the heat of another body, John's body, next to his at least calms his thoughts enough to find some remnants of rest.

 

***

 

“...you've had sex before, haven't you?” John's eyes were still heavy with sleep as he whispered into Sherlock's neck; the sun had barely risen and gently threw its first pale streaks of light into John's room. He could feel Sherlock go stiff under his fingers, and for a while Sherlock said nothing.

 

“...Yes.” he finally said, his voice oddly detached.

 

“Then why are you so... averse to the idea? I mean, I know I'm not the best-looking but -”

“No, it's got nothing to do with you, John.”

“You've never been with a man then? Is it that?”

“...I have.” Sherlock grunted back, his voice as strained as John had ever heard it. He clearly had no wish to discuss the topic further, and was looking everywhere but at John, who still gave him questioning looks.

“What's the problem then?”

Sherlock was silent, for a while. A muscle in his cheek was twitching as he seemed to wreck his brain for an answer that would be satisfactory to John. John's obvious erection pressing into his thigh didn't make things any easier.

“I'm just not... no good at it.” he finally rasped.

 

John seemed not to understand for a second, but then a relieved laugh escaped from his lips. “Don't make me panic like that,” he said, still grinning, and he gave Sherlock the most reassuring smile he could manage. “I don't mind, I don't mind at all. I just want to be close to you, you understand that?”

“We're close right now.” Sherlock pouted like a child, but the way he still averted his eyes made it plainly clear he got the message. John's erection seemed to make him uncomfortable, but if John noticed, it didn't show.

“I can...” Sherlock gulps, his voice is actually quivering. “ Maybe I can just..” His fingers carefully travelled down John's side, towards the pressing issue between them.

 

“You ...Sherlock, you don't have to do this...” John huffed, but Sherlock's face was set in stone. He seemed to have reached a conclusion that would seem absurd to everyone else.

“Yes, I do. Just tell me what to do.”

“You, uhm.” John twitched involuntarily as Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his length. “You surely have done that before, haven't you.” Sherlock's face contorted with an obscene mixture of concentration and distaste, and it made John hard as a rock. He could hardly believe Sherlock was really doing this, and he reached out a hand to touch Sherlock's face. The detective turned red.

 

In the end their incoherent fumbling – because Sherlock seemed intent not to let John touch him – lead to John taking Sherlock's head in between his hands and guiding him in between his legs. You could see Sherlock's mind rear up at the thought, and he looked as if he'd soon be sick all over John's stomach, but he finally opened his mouth and began to meekly lick John's cock. A delighted sigh left John's mouth, and he cooed Sherlock through it with a litany of compliments and moans as he guided him up and down in just the right pace until Sherlock made a strangled, gagging noise in the back of his throat. It was awesome.

 

He soothed Sherlock with compliments and reassurances afterwards, and Sherlock looked so unravelled and forlorn and grateful at the same time. It would break one's heart, if one had one. There was a fight going on behind his forehead, his eyes were red and he gulped a few times, trying to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. It made him nauseous.

John didn't notice. He'd wrapped Sherlock in a tight embrace and was breathing so softly that Sherlock knew he'd fallen asleep. He cautiously petted the doctor's soft hair, left alone with nothing but his own thoughts. Moriarty was back.

***

 

 _Didn't see that one coming. lol._ JM

 

 


	5. Clueing for Looks

 

Her Majesty, who went by Mycroft these days, was not amused. He despised surprises, even more so if they flared up where wounds had closed and painfully healed long ago. Opening old scars always made them worse, and Sherlock surely had a lot of those.

***

 

Sherlock was positively going insane. He and John had been chasing after the intangible ghostly traces of Moriarty for nearly two weeks now, and still, every time they reached out to finally get hold of the criminal, their hands grasped at thin air. It was beginning to frustrate John immensely, he'd barely done half his clinic hours and Sherlock was getting out of hand one day at a time.

 

First of all, their petty criminal from three weeks prior had turned up dead. Which in itself wasn't spectacularly surprising, but he had been found in an all familiar swimming pool that had been closed for ages. The location was too plainly obvious, but a key found in the victim's abdomen led them to a locker at the subway station close to Scotland yard and the code was 221.

Second, in said locker they found the victim's missing fingers and toes, all 13 of them, and a photo of Sherlock and John chasing after the murder victim whom said digits had belonged to. Again, it was too obvious, like someone stupid tried to frame them for the murder. But there were more absurd links that finally linked the case back to Sherlock an John and, more importantly, Moriarty. He was playing one of his sick, twisted games again. John had finally just assigned himself to following Sherlock wherever the madman ran off to next.

Third, they loved every second of it.

***

 

 _So lovely Sherlock's finally tamed? Serving his lover the way he's supposed to?_ JM

 

 _None of your business. He's obliging, but still lacks enthusiasm._ JW

 

 _Will I ever have a go at dear Sherl?_ JM

 

 _So you haven't had him yet?_ JM

 

 _Patience, Jim. Slow and steady. And I know you're watching all the time, enjoying it more than you probably should._ JW

 

 _Guilty and charged. I'm growing impatient here. Love,_ JM

 

***

 _It's time._ JW

 

***

 

A single fingerprint of a dead man appearing on a letter addressed at Sherlock Holmes. Missing fingers. Missing evidence from the crime scene. Traces of water in places where it hadn't rained in days and more fingers and toes appearing, reaching a total number of 23. Both male, both dead.

 

“It's like he leaves a trail of breadcrumbs,” Sherlock murmured more to himself than to John. He had settled down in his chair, hand folded and mind racing again, eyes wide but seeing nothing.

“What?” John said from the kitchen where he set about to cook them some dinner. Take out was fine for a while, but once in a while he craved some real food. “You'll have to speak louder, Sherlock!”

“Breadcrumbs all over London, plain in sight so that even Scotland Yard notices them, a deception, but from what – Moriarty is playing a game, he always is, but he's not interested in Scotland yard, he's trying to tell me something-” he rattled on without even hearing John. It was one of his rapid inner monologues where his lips just followed his thoughts, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. Something was off.

***

 

The remains of human digits found in Sherlock and John's fireplace. This was great.

***

 

“Please take care of yourself, John.” Sherlock said solemnly whilst they had some of the dinner John had cooked. The blonde man's head popped up, a look of surprise plastered all over his face.

“How... Yes, of course. What makes you say that?”

“Moriarty is talking to me. The letter we received, the one with the dead man's fingerprints... it also had yours all over it.”

John's eyes grew wide, a trace of terror creeping into them. “What? How did he get-...?”

He didn't finish the question, but Sherlock's mind was elsewhere. “Not the point. He probably has someone at your workplace. Point is, he's telling me what he's after. Or whom.” He frowned, making a vague hand gesture towards John. “He's after you, obviously.”

 

John looked irritated for a moment, then he laughed. “No. What would he want from me, after all?”

Sherlock's face was set and he leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving John.

“Because you're my weakness, John. He wants to use you to get to me. My hamartia after all is... falling for you.”

 

There was an odd silence whilst John blushed. This was the closest to a confession Sherlock had ever made, and it was truly touching. His heart melted along with his smile, and he carefully reached for Sherlock's hand.

“Don't-” He cleared his throat. “don't worry about me, Sherlock. I've been around madmen for quite a while now.”

 

It took Sherlock a while to finally return the smile, and when he did he half-closed his eyes, waiting for a kiss. It was always him offering, waiting for John to make the final move. As if he expected John to pull back at the last second. John grinned as he tenderly put his lips against Sherlock's.

A moan, then two.

***

 


	6. Break my Spine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your Kudos, it's really encouraging for me and means a lot (espacially since this is my first ff). Also, heavy Trigger Warning for this chapter. Don't read if any of the trigger warnings above apply to you. 
> 
> Any advice, comments, threats? Comment below *3*

 

> \- "Love conquers all." (irony)

A noise somewhere in the back of his mind, too slurred to comprehend but enough to make him aware of the fact he was sleeping. Sherlock grimaced as he slowly came to his senses. He had fallen asleep over the analysis of the single digits' positions and whether or not they pointed at any significant landmarks in the surroundings of Westminster and London. So far all he'd found was troubled sleep and confusing dreams.

 

He realised someone was in the room before his eyes had even adjusted to the darkness. The sun hadn't yet risen, and he could barely make out the shapes of his surroundings. Before he had even made a first conscious decision he was on his feet, John's Sig Sauer was in his hand, and he pointed it at the unknown intruder with both hands. The figure froze, raising their hands. His. It was a male, not especially tall. Military background.

 

“...If Moriarty sent you..” he began, carefully pronouncing each syllable; probably PTSD or some other sort of psychological trauma, experienced in fighting close-range, left-handed, used to work as a medic - “..John?”

 

It is John who stands in front of him, hands raised and face unreadable. Sherlock immediately lowered the gun, horror flooding his face. He had threatened John with his own gun, had had his finger on the trigger and the safety unlocked...and all that because he was so paranoid about Moriarty's next move. He had been so certain an immediate attack in their own home was the next step. It had to be, it had to be today, and it had to be here. But not like this.

“John. Forgive me.” He threw the gun away, but John still looked shaken. It landed on the floor a few feet from him, and its metallic noise rang through the silence between them. He tried again. “I didn't mean to...”

Sherlock fell silent as he felt his blood rush into his cheeks. John had every right to be dismayed, angry even. Were there any social conventions for such a scenario? He wasn't aware of any, so he just stood there, eyes locked on John and waiting for the other man's next move.

 

John finally made a step towards Sherlock, breathing a heavy sigh. It was the first time John had ever been in his room, he realised. His muscles were tense, something irritated him – well of course, he'd just had a gun in his face. His gun. John took another step and stared Sherlock in the eyes, face still unreadable.

“I'm sorry.” Sherlock repeated, as John laid a hand on his wrist and pushed him backwards until the back of his legs hit his bed. John still didn't say anything, but Sherlock began to grow uneasy. John laid the other hand on his shoulder and applied the tiniest bit of pressure, guiding Sherlock into a sitting position on his bed. His hand stayed on Sherlock's shoulder. As Sherlock looked up at John with a questioning look on his face, John motioned for him to be quiet, and then it all happened too fast.

Sherlock was not a weak man, and highly skilled in various kinds of martial arts. The judo certificate hung right above the head of his bed. Nonetheless, he didn't expect an attack right now, and least of all from the man standing in front of him. With a single, swift movement John had Sherlock pinned under him, their lower parts half dangling off the bed, their chests pressed against each other. John promptly covered his mouth in a kiss, but Sherlock only groaned. The awkward position was putting strain on his back and something was off about this. Something was not right. If John wanted attention in any form, he could just have asked. As John finally broke the kiss, both their breathing was strained. Sherlock sniffed cautiously, but there was no trace of alcohol in John's breath. He didn't act as if he was acting under the influence of any drugs either, but with how little he could see, he wasn't sure.

 

“John, you're hurting my back-” he finally groaned, trying to move his body into a more comfortable position. John didn't react, and grabbed Sherlock by the hips, shoving him properly on the bed. He covered Sherlock's mouth again before either of them could say a word. Sherlock tried to calm down. This was John being affectionate again, and they'd make out for a while, and Sherlock would proceed by giving John a blow job and John would fall asleep next to him with his arms around Sherlock's body and that glowing smile plastered all over his face. It wasn't exactly his favourite pastime, but it made John happy. It was their kind of normal.

 

With that reassurance in mind, Sherlock put his hands on John's neck and waist, and pulled John closer against his body. John's kisses grew more demanding in return, more aggressive than usual, and Sherlock decided he'd just skip all the courtesies. His left hand left the small of John's back took hold of John's penis, which was hard as a rock and strained through the material of his pyjamas.

“John,” he rasped. “Let me... if you want, I'll-” He slid his slim fingers under John's boxer shorts, and quickly slid them down. It was a bit difficult based on the fact that John was still hovering over him, but he got it done. But instead of letting go of Sherlock, John's hands grabbed him by the shoulders and as Sherlock realised John was about to turn him onto his stomach, he began to struggle. He had no intention of hurting John, but the implication of him lying on his stomach with John looming above him flickered into his mind too quickly; against his will, he didn't even want to consider the possibility of something like that ensuing-

“Please, John. I understand you're angry, but can we-”

A shove that was harder than he had expected, and he found himself on his side with John above him.

“John? ..John.” Sherlock hated hearing his own voice quiver with the same panic that was simultaneously creeping into his stomach and making it coil. His whole body froze in terror as he felt John's hand slide under his dressing gown, tracing his waist, the curve of his hips, the hipbones that were probably more prominent than they should be. He was about to touch him _there_.  “-Please.”

For a moment, John paused. Then, Sherlock was on his stomach. John's hands were busy, one holding Sherlock down by his back, the other one probing at Sherlock's ass now, his fingers demanding and in no way as gentle and kind as Sherlock had expected. Yes, he had thought about this, fantasised sometimes.. but not like _this_.

 

He felt his whole muscles lock in on themselves as John's fingers went further, sliding in between his crack. Further. When they probed at his tender entrance, a strangled sob escaped from his throat. No. No no no, not like this.

 

He grunted John's name through gritted teeth as John entered him with the first finger. Some anger was dwelling up inside of him, but more than that confusion, and hurt, and fear. A mind-numbing fear that he hadn't experienced in ages, and that left his body vulnerable and useless. He could barely fight back. For just a moment he was glad John didn't look at his face.

Another sob emerged when John added a second finger. This was nowhere near pleasurable, and it hurt. It _hurt_ , damn. He clenched his jaw even tighter, trying to wriggle free from John's caricature of an embrace around him, tried to at least get his legs free, but every move he made also made the fingers up his arse worse. If John only had the decency to talk to him, this was driving him insane. He'd been aware John had wanted to engage in intercourse for a while now, but he'd never expected his urges to condense into anything even remotely resembling this.

 

When John removed his fingers and Sherlock felt the mattress shift from John positioning himself, a final rush of adrenaline made him lunge forward in a last, desperate attempt to get away. He wanted out. He wanted out of this nightmare, wherein his John - A pained cry came from his lips as John got hold of his waist, and shoved him back onto his stomach. He felt his flatmate's weight settle on himself, he felt John's hand grabbing Sherlock's wrist whilst the other one removed the final layer of clothes from Sherlock, leaving him bare. Not a single word.

 

He felt the tip of John's cock at his arse, pressing on demandingly until he found Sherlock's entrance. Another sob. He wished he could stop shaking. “-Please, John. Please. You don't have to do this-” Sherlock nearly begged, but John shoved himself forward, guiding his eager cock into Sherlock's narrow passage without even listening to the detective's pleas.

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't cry. There was some moisture accumulating in his eyes, indeed. But he didn't cry.

Only a low groan left his body, although it must hurt, hurt immensely. John had never had anyone so tight, and it was on the verge of painful, he could barely imagine what it must feel like for Sherlock. Another grunt as he pushed as far forward as he could. Sherlock's body was violently shaking by now, but he didn't fight John anymore. Well, his taunt arse fought John's cock, but at least Sherlock's body had gone pliant. What an unusual sight.

John suppressed a grown of his own as he pulled out slowly, until just the tip was left buried in his flatmate. This was too good to be true, and he wanted this to last as long as he could eventually control himself. Another push forward, and this time the primal growl made its way past his locked jaw, guttural and raw. Sherlock whimpered. He had buried his head in his arms, and John took in the sight of the taller man's body rocking forth with every push John made, the way his muscles had clenched tightly, trembling with exertion and fear, how his laboured breaths shook his whole frame. Another thrust. Another.

 

After a while, John had settled into a rhythm of sorts, although he had to concentrate every fibre of his being into not giving in and just plunging into Sherlock and coming undone at the spot. Another. Another.

Sherlock didn't seem to settle into any routine, or get even remotely accustomed to the intrusion. His whimpers just got shriller instead, and more frequent, and as John finally felt his climax approaching and quickened up his pace, Sherlock was screaming into the cushion his face was buried in. Another. Another. Another. Another-

 

John moaned a low growl as he finally came, pushing himself into Sherlock as hard as he could, spilling all his being into the man beneath him. He stayed in that position for a few seconds, trying to get his breathing under control and wriggling his dick around in Sherlock's ass to draw out the last bit of pleasure. Sherlock was sobbing, quietly so, but John could tell from the way his body shook.

 

He pulled out with one quick move that made Sherlock gasp in pain. There was some bleeding, and traces of blood on the bedsheets, but he'd check on that later. All he cared for now was to get himself cleaned up and tucked away, and get back to sleep.

 

Sherlock was still trembling when John finally closed the door behind him.

 

***

 

 _My, my. You really surpassed yourself working lovely Sherlock, didn't you. Poor boy's a wreck._ JM

 

 _I wish you were that passionate with me_. JM

 

 _Let me sleep. You know what to do._ JW

 

***

 


	7. Bright Shiny Morning

 

When Sherlock woke up, there was a split second of blissful ignorance and blankness in his head – then the pain flared up everywhere in his body, and last night's events came crashing back. His eyes shot up, trying to bulge out of his head, his breathing hitched– and he caught sight of Moriarty hovering above him with a worried expression on his face. Jim Moriarty sat on the edge of his bed.

 

Sherlock blinked, and blinked again, desperately trying to will this nightmare away. It was obvious he was OD-ing, there was no other explanation for all these horrific things ensuing. He groaned in pain as he tried to sit up, a stabbing sensation shooting up in his lower body – he felt like he'd been impaled. In a way he had been. Moriarty made a soothing noise and pressed Sherlock back into the bed gently.

“Shhh, Sherlock. You must rest, Doctor's orders.”

Sherlock groaned. Quickly assessing the range of his injuries and capabilities, it was evident he wasn't even a match for Moriarty. Just momentarily, he ought to resign to his fate and to await the madman's next act. He didn't even have the energy to put up a fight. Moriarty crossed his legs with a smug look on his face, leaned back and mustered Sherlock. Every detail of his demeanour oozed contentment and glee.

“I had contemplated wearing my nurse-outfit, but I figured it'd distract you too much from getting some rest. And we wouldn't want that, would we.” Moriarty's voice was a blasphemous mocking of a loving mother's concerned tone, and it made Sherlock's head spin. Just existing and listening seemed to take up all his energy, and he would probably have fallen asleep hadn't Moriarty gently nudged him awake with an elbow to his ribs. He gasped.

“C'mooon, Sherlock. I had expected to find you a bit more thrilled, after all, this was a veeery special night for you and Johnny-boy.”

 

Sherlock's eyes shot up, and he felt his muscles tense. _John._

 

_Where was John._

 

His eyes finally focussed on Moriarty, who seemed immensely pleased with himself, evermore so than usually.

 

“How would you know?” Sherlock finally croaked. Something was wrong with both his body and his voice; it was raw from the occurrences of last night, sure, but too slurred. He had been drugged. Some neuromuscular blockers, and probably a sedative.

 

“Oh dear, you must have known I've been watching the whole time.” Sherlock's suddenly found it hard to get enough air into his lungs. His eyes hushed towards Moriarty's face.

“Watching what.”

“Oh, you know. I was getting bored of the two of you getting your wires crossed and yet... never getting it on, you understand? What a shame it was watching poor Johnny being devoured by his longing for you, but never being able to give in to it. I did the both of you a favour, really.” Sherlock hissed. His mind was racing with the implications of Moriarty's words, not knowing whether to cling to them or deny.

 

“...Where's John.” he finally mumbled, his steel blue eyes set on Moriarty's. The other man's demeanour was unsettling at best.

“Upstairs.” Moriarty whistled. He got up in a swift, elegant movement and straightened the cuffs of his suit. “Right where I left him.” A diabolical grin crept onto his lips as he inspected his watch and contorted his face in mocked shock.

“Oh my god, it's so late already. How time flies when you're having fun. I'd better be going.”

 

He bowed down, drinking in the sight of the man lying in front of him, trembling with anger and fear but yet, all hail Diazepam and Mivacron, unable to move much. It was too beautiful to be true. Truly, truly beautiful. He had to take a picture. His phone would do.

 

“Bye-bye, darling” he whispered, when he had shot a frame that captured Sherlock in just the perfect angle - “I wish I was that photogenic. You're stunning.”

He bowed down, and pressed a chaste kiss onto Sherlock's shaking forehead. “See you soon.”

 

 

John.

 

John.

_John._

***

 

When Sherlock had finally regained enough strength and control over his legs that he could stand up, he hobbled towards the stairs that led to John's room, but couldn't make up his mind. Some part of him wanted John gone, just gone, gone from here and from him, and yet. It was _John_. There had to have been a reason for all of this, a cause, nothing of it made sense – he slowly went back into his room and picked up – carefully, painfully – the discarded weapon that still lay on the floor next to his bed. He unlocked the safety. He had to know. If there was any certainty to be found in this, it was all he could hope for.

***

 

He ought not to have bothered to have brought the gun with him, and he needn't have paused and readied himself in front of John's door before he slammed it open. John wasn't even conscious.

***

 

When John finally came around, he found himself on his stomach and gasping in pain. He had been tied up, wrists behind his back and something in his mouth. In fact, it had been there for a long time. He cautiously rolled onto his side, realising it was Sherlock who was sitting next to him, face set and gun aimed at his face. The shivers were gone.

 

“...? Whmmf?-” His eyes widened, and he struggled in panic as he recognised his own gun pointed at him – again. He was starting to get accustomed to this. Sherlock seemed to take some pity on him -no that wasn't it- but at least he reached forward and cautiously pulled whatever blocked John's mouth out. The gun was still pointed at his face though.

 

“...Sh'lock..” John rasped, trying to work his jaw. Sherlock's eyes were hard. He was on guard, each muscle in his body strained and his finger still on the trigger. The safety was unlocked.

 

“Sherlock...” John mumbled. Realisation began to creep onto his face. “Last night – oh my god, Sherlock. I'm so - I'm so sorry- I'm-” Sherlock's frown deepened, and as he finally spoke his voice didn't sound like his own.

“When did Moriarty get here?”

“I- I don't know, he was just there in the midst of the night-”

“...” Sherlock still stared. There was something he needed to know, but he just didn't have it in him to ask. John's wrists were still bound, the skin under them red and sore. He had struggled. Was this Moriarty playing a perverse version of overprotective avenger, or...-

He took a deep breath, shivering as he exhaled.

“I assume he...” his voice cracked with the last syllable, and he felt his hands start to shiver. Damnit. “Did he make you...?”

_...do it?_

He had never seen anything even closely resembling the horror and sadness that crept into John's face. He wouldn't even have had to nod, because Sherlock felt his whole intestines turn as all the pieces fell into place. _I was getting bored of the two of you dancing around each other and yet never getting it on. I did the both of you a favour, really._ The trembling of his fingers worsened as he slowly lowered the weapon.

_You must have known I've been watching the whole time._

 

“Did he...?” He never finished the questions. John's open wrists and the way he held himself told him more than he wanted to know. His head sank, letting go of the cold, heavy metal in his hands. It landed on the floor with a dumb thud.

 

In a way it was brilliant, insanely so. Within a few hours, Moriarty had woven his slender fingers into what had become John's doing and Sherlock's undoing. Walls came crashing down. It was brilliant, so brilliant. The fingers in the fireplace, all of them pointing towards Sherlock's room and towards John's, the number of digits left on the corpses. The one person whom he trusted with his life and everything he held dear; John.

***

 

 


	8. Silence

 

Sherlock was gone when John came to the next time. He wandered through the flat but only found money and clothes missing, so he didn't make too much of an issue about it. He would have preferred to have Sherlock with him, he always wanted that man close to him, but he could wait. He knew Sherlock Holmes would come back. Sherlock Holmes always came back to him.

***

 

Sherlock was back, looking slightly dishevelled but otherwise well, three days later. At least John could see that was what Sherlock would like to have looked like. The doctor had only noticed Sherlock after a while, since the detective sat in his chair, so rigid and immovable he might as well have been another piece of furniture. John had dropped a cup.

 

“Sherlock..!” John came rushing into their living room, only halting a few feet away from the pale man. A doubtful expression crept onto his face, his whole demeanour changing with guilt and insecurity. “Sherlock,” he finally repeated, “Are you... How are you. My god, where have you been?”

“I'm fine.”

“Sherlock, you've been gone for three days, I couldn't even-”

“I'm fine, John.”

Sherlock's eyes flashed towards him, eyeing the doctor for the first time. Sunken shoulders, avoiding eye contact. Has not been sleeping properly for a few days, also not properly taken care of himself, armed, apparently insecure about how to proceed due to prior encounter-

“You needn't worry, John. I am not afraid of you.”

 

John's eyes grew bigger, but he still didn't respond.

 

Eventually, Sherlock breathed a deep sigh. “I'm not blind, neither are you. I've figured it out, we're fine.”

With that he got up, but before he could go anywhere John grabbed him by his arm. Neither of them could help the emotions bolting through their veins at the touch, though they were essentially different ones. Sherlock tensed.

 

“Sherlock, what I have done was-”

“- entirely Moriarty's doing, I'm aware of that. Please, John, I'm not that ignorant.”

“But still... we ought to talk about this. No matter if someone forced me to do it, it was still-”

“LOOK.” Sherlock interrupted him, obviously surprising himself with the volume and sternness of his voice. He hemmed, lowering his voice. “Look, John. I'd rather we don't discuss this in any detail. If we make this any more dramatic we're playing right into Moriarty's hands.”

 

John was at a loss for words. So he just kept staring at his flatmate with sad eyes and a frown on his face.

 

“I'm... I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really am.”

“I know.”

***

 

 _Oh my, I may have cried a tear or two. What a dramatic entrance, what lovely big eyes and trust he finds in his lover. 10/10._ JM

 

 


	9. Close up

 

 

“I've been thinking about it, John.”

“Hrrmh..? 'bout what.”

“About you being a rapist. Having deceived me during all of this... .”

 

John, who had been drowsing off next to Sherlock, was suddenly wide awake.

John had started to come into Sherlock's room at night, in order to wake him from nightmares and be ready in case Sherlock wanted to talk. Of course Sherlock never did, but it was nice knowing John was there, just in case. They had re-assumed their habit of sleeping aside each other, Sherlock incredibly stiff and assuming John didn't notice, and John incredibly enduring and understanding. But now the doctor was startled awake.

 

“...so? What did you come up with?”

“Moriarty aside you must have had an intricate knowledge not only about my personal life but also connections and influence on the higher ranks of politicians and official representatives, considering that Mycroft didn't mind you living with me. Now, in regards to our complicated relationship it would be quite natural for him to omit such fact as 'Dear brother, you're moving in with a rapist', but given the amount of time he's been interacting with you now you've either never committed any serious crime or no one has ever picked up on it, which – considering my brother's uncontrollable urge to interfere with my life and those of everyone around me – and considering the ability of deep thinking and abstraction you've displayed in the time we've known each other, no offence – is highly unlikely.”

John was stunned. For a while he just stared at Sherlock, amazement in his eyes. “...brilliant.” he finally mumbled. “Wait, did you just insult me-?”

“Then again, the whole of your being, the air of clumsiness and the softness around your eyes-”

“What softness around my-”

“the way you express yourself and act around me and all other people – must have been the most cunning, sophisticated act, it would have taken ages to plan and construct, you would have to carefully construct a character that completes me, that goes with all the eccentricities of a sociopath, and that would have taken a genius that is, again, no offence, beyond you. In addition, there are some-”

“I'm too stupid to be the bad guy? Is that what you're trying to say?” John shot him an angry look, but he couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from quirking upwards. It was adorable, really. Raw emotions.

Sherlock interrupted his monologue. He blinked at John, as if he hadn't even noticed the other man being beside him before.

“...I added 'no offence'.” he finally said. John scuffed.

 

“Yes, yes you did.” he mumbled as he carefully brushed his hand through Sherlock's hair. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are an arrogant, pompous and brilliant bastard, you know that." Sherlock's eyes were set on him, patiently but cautiously waiting for god who knew what to happen. "And is that what you think of me?”

“What?”

“Someone 'that completes you'?”

John was smiling widely now.

Sherlock didn't reply, but his cheeks turned a shade of pink. He'd never been looked at with such a sentimental expression, such gentle and ..loving eyes. Some part of him wanted John closer, another, more imperious part wanted him gone. He'd have to get over this soon.

 

Thanks to whatever deity people liked to refer to, John dozed off soon, and Sherlock could relax just the slightest bit. John had not made any sexual advances yet, and maybe he wouldn't for a while. After all, their last encounter-

He squinted at the thought of it. He needed some time. John would understand, would he.

 

***

 


	10. Uneasy silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, lovelies.  
> I am not dead, but I've been away on a business trip for quite a while. I have finally finished the next chapters, and will upload them soon. Thank you all so much for your support and kind words!!! I really appreciate each and every one!
> 
> P.S. Next chapter will be long and full of issues and confrontation... ;)

_He's not as innocent as he pretends to be, you know that. He's making inquiries._ JM

 

 _You do complete him more than he is even aware of. Could watch the two of you all day._ JM

 

 _Oh wait, in fact, I do just that._ JM

 

***

 

“Who was it?”

“Who was what? You'll have to be more specific than that, John.”

“The people you've had sex with before.”

Sherlock paused. They were lying on his bed, John curled up against Sherlock whilst Sherlock's fingers were steadily bashing onto the keyboard of his laptop like rain onto the ground.

 

“Why would you want to know?”

“I was just wondering. Whether... if I'm the problem, you know? If it's me you're having an issue with-”

“You're not.”

A moment of silence, whilst John's eyes searched Sherlock's, ineffectively so - The other man kept his eyes fixated on the screen in front of him. Finally John sighed, brushing his fingers through Sherlock's hair in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. It didn't seem to have any effect though.

 

“It's okay. You don't have to talk about it.”

“I know.”

 

An uneasy silence settled between them. Sherlock was a tough one.

***

***

Something was up with Sherlock. Over the last couple days he had honoured Baker Street with his absence, diving through London and the tube in a pattern that didn't make any sense to John at all. Not that Sherlock ever told John where he was going, or why, but Moriarty was too fond of Sherlock to let him roam the streets unattended. Which meant John was all too aware of the detective's ways.

The little time that Sherlock actually spent in their flat, he was absorbed in either his laptop or his phone, and kept to himself. John gave him a warm smile and a kiss once and again, and Sherlock reciprocated – uncertainly but definitely not unwillingly. Maybe he ought to rephrase his earlier impression, John thought during one of those innocent, yet heart-warming kisses. It wasn't as if something was up with Sherlock – Sherlock was up to something.


	11. Damsel in Distress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, I might as well serve the tea while it's still hot. Have an extrordinarily long chapter to make up for the long wait, loves! :)

 

When Sherlock came home after one of his trips – it was a Friday morning, 10.30 AM and he hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours - his mind was too troubled to notice either the ominous black car in front of Speedy's which had no business being there, or how unusually empty the street was on this particular day.

 

When he finally opened the door to their living room, he came home to many things which were out of place: One of them was John, so apparently he had left work earlier or had not gone at all, and his expression was one of absolute terror. He'd locked his jaw with a stern expression and glared at the second issue present: Moriarty.

 

 

“Well good morning, Sherlock! Lovely to see you.” Moriarty greeted him in a delighted sing-song of a voice, without even turning his head towards the detective. “Some tea would be lovely, by the way. Johnny-boy?”

John didn't move an inch, his muscles locked and tense. For a moment Sherlock just stared at them, then he spun around to put his coat away. Had all of this...?

“It has been ages, hasn't it?”, he replied, his voice cheery and high-pitched. The frown on John's face deepened.

“I'm terribly busy, you know? I apologise for neglecting you lately.”

 

Sherlock finally stepped towards them, eyeing Moriarty who occupied his chair. When neither Moriarty nor John made a move, he gestured towards the simple chair next to him.

“The accused usually takes this chair”, he announced. John gave him an irritated look as Sherlock gestured towards the chair. Sherlock was way too calm about all of this. It took a moment for the penny to drop.

“You... you knew he'd be coming”, he finally rasped.

“Why yes, of course I knew”, said Sherlock cheerfully, still gesturing towards the chair. “The fingers in our fireplace were blatantly obvious, weren't they?” Moriarty gave an excited laugh, but John ignored him.

“Were they.”

“John, please sit.”

 

For a moment, John had the stupidest expression on his face. Then he carefully eyed Sherlock up and down, who was still motioning for John to sit on the chair next to him.

“I... I am the suspect today? What am I accused of?”

“Sit.”

All the fake cheerfulness had drained from Sherlock's voice as fast as it had been conjured, it had, in fact, turned to ice. John suppressed a shiver, but finally got up and slowly moved towards the chair. Moriarty seemed to be absolutely delighted, and clasped his hands in excitement as he watched John taking seat in the chair and Sherlock sitting down in John's chair, both without ever breaking eye contact. “Ooooh, this will be amaaazing”, Moriarty cooed, but neither of the other men so much as looked at him.

 

“Amazing indeed,” Sherlock finally said, his clear eyes mustering John's intently. “If this is indeed an act, you are an amazing actor, John.”

John still looked dumbfounded. A defensiveness crept into his demeanour as realisation dawned on him, but he said nothing. “If that is even your name. John Watson?”

 

“Oooooooooh. I think I know what's going on”, Moriarty chanted, his face contorted with glee. “Damsel in distress.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said, eyes still locked with John's.

“...Am I the Damsel? Would anybody care to enlighten me about what the hell is going on?” John retorted, looking irritated and just the slightest bit offended.

 

 

“He thinks you've set him up, my dear.” Moriarty chanted, but John still didn't get it. “Played him, betrayed his trust, lovers deceiving each other.”

“We're not-” John burst out before he could think about it, but he caught himself mid-sentence. He really ought to get over this eventually. They were not a couple - not _yet_ , maybe -

“Well, I have tapes that prove otherwise.” Moriarty mused. The perpetual grin on his face seemed to grow by the minute. His eyes swept to Sherlock. There was something dark in his expression as he mustered the detective, and Sherlock felt the blood rush into his cheeks. He held the other man's gaze nonetheless.

 

“What Moriarty meant to say is that this whole act has been incredibly precise and genius in both conception and execution, John. Nonetheless, you can drop all that pretentiousness now.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I think you may have to explain, after all, John Watson is quite a simple man.” Moriarty snickered.

 

And with that, Sherlock began another of his impressive monologues that usually left John with his jaw open and mind barely able to follow. It usually also left him amazed and in awe, but like a surgeon, Sherlock began to dissect how John, or whoever he was, had come up with the character that was John Watson, with the character traits that made him one of the few people who actually managed to get along with Sherlock Holmes. How gentle, kind and awe-stricken John Watson had become Sherlock's flatmate, how he marvelled at the madman's deductions where other people only saw madness, how he put up with Sherlock's perks and peculiarities and even got the other man into beginning to form some bond with him. How he had infiltrated Sherlock's network and even hired Moriarty – Thomas Brooks, the actor – and constructed Sherlock's arch-enemy, a super-villain that would keep Sherlock's mind from going insane with boredom. All the while John stayed silent, his face unreadable. Moriarty exploded with glee, his vicious eyes darting back and forth between the two men in front of him.

 

“Ohh, this is even better than I had imagined it.” he smiled, taking a sip of his tea.

 

John was shaking by the time Sherlock was done. He looked more upset than exposed, but Sherlock blinked that impression away – he had never been good interpreting other people's emotions and after all, if he was right, he didn't know the man in front of him in the first place.

 

It took John a minute to speak. He took a few deep breaths, as if to calm himself, and finally gritted out: “... so... you really believe all of that stuff?”

“I don't have definite proof yet, hence my nightly excursions. But every hint I find – which couldn't have been manipulated by you, those are scarce but I came across _some_ – points at it. Thomas Brooks' background, the whole irony of it, the news coverage, the murders that were clearly staged. Even the fingers in our fireplace, the _fingers_ \- ” He threw Moriarty a questioning look “There you really broke character, John. Or was it Thomas Brooks' idea, I can hardly keep them straight?”

Moriarty shrugged, that self-satisfied smile still on his face.

 

“What about the fingers?” John growled.

“C'mon John, you couldn't have missed that.”

“Just assume that I did.”

“They were pointing at your room. That's too obvious, even for John Watson or Thomas Brooks.”

“Sherlock.” John interrupted him. “You really mean to tell me I 'created' John Watson and all of this .. this is... some kind of sick joke? Is that really what you're saying?”

 

“But wait-” Moriarty interrupted, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Does that mean that John Watson's nightly advances and, how do I put it, _intrusions_ have been _staged_ as well?” He faked a shocked expression, his lips forming a perfect o, whilst Sherlock averted his eyes for the first time. Now both men were staring at him, Moriarty with Schadenfreude, John fuming with anger and – Sherlock wasn't sure – disgust.

“I had hoped I was wrong.” he admitted, his voice suddenly shaky and quiet. John huffed in disgust – or frustration – whatever it was, it was not the reaction Sherlock had expected.

“Over the last days, I've been making calls and called in some favours, tried to validate all information I had on you. Hell, I even approached my insufferable brother.”

“And what did you find?” John spat out between gritted teeth.

Sherlock gave him a long look, and for a while it seemed as if he wouldn't answer. “Nothing”, he finally said. It was at that moment that John exploded.

 

Some loud shouting and rather vulgar expressions shall be omitted here, but John definitely was mad. “You believe that I am capable of – hell, Jesus fucking Christ, of doing all of these things and of deceiving Sherlock Holmes, of-” his voice broke for a moment ”- of _raping_ you? You really think I only got involved with you because I wanted to _fuck_ with you?”

For a moment Sherlock pondered on whether John was referring to his mind or his body. “You did rape me, regardless of your reasoning.”, he tried, but John didn't look appeased in the slightest. He was starting to look desperate, but before he could rant on, Moriarty interrupted their arguing with a sharp whistling. Both men's heads turned to him, irritated as if they had forgotten he was actually there.

“I fondly remember Thomas Brooks, I really do. And I love all of this-” he gestured towards Sherlock and John, raising his eyebrows. “So much passion, so much feeling in everything you say. I can literally feel the emotions seeping into me. Last question.”

He pointed his index finger at himself, giving both of them a suggestive look.

 

“What is Thomas Brooks doing here?”

 

 

For a while, Sherlock and John only stared.

“That would... that wouldn't make any sense, would it?” John slowly began. “If Moriarty was just an actor, wouldn't it be stupid of him to even come here?“

“It would." Sherlock answered, eyes still locked with Moriarty's. "Except for the case that you suspected I was slowly figuring everything out. Then it would be more of a statement.”

“And what kind of statement would that be.” John seemed rather on edge, as if he was about to burst into shouts any moment. Sherlock carefully checked his surroundings before looking back at John.

“Well if I start to doubt John Watson, the only obvious and immediate option would be to put John Watson in danger.”

“Damsel in distress”, Moriarty said, just as he unlocked the safety. Within seconds he was pointing his gun at John's head, before Sherlock could move or John could even turn his head.

“What an amazing encounter this has been, once again, dear Sherlock. You never fail to entertain me. I love our chats, and I really am quite fond of you, d'you know that?”

John slowly raised his hands as he gave Sherlock a wide-eyed look. Sherlock stared blankly, thoughts racing behind his eyes. Something wasn't right. Why was Moriarty still putting up this act if Sherlock had already figured it out-?

“Too bad I'm not here to play games.” Moriarty said, and within a split second he turned the weapon aimed at John's head to Sherlock, and shot.

Sherlock felt the impact of the bullet before he felt the pain, but when it came, he came undone. He heard John shouting without comprehending any of it, he saw the shapes blurring into smudges in front of his eyes as he fell. Darkness engulfed him, and he embraced it, thankful for once.

 

 


	12. Besides You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like making a horrible pun and naming this chapter "Mycraft". Needless to say, I resisted.

 

 

Silence, and a searing, glowing fire in his chest. Somewhat dulled, so he had been administered something for the pain. It barely took the edge off it, but someone had tended to his injuries nonetheless. The stingy, nauseating smell of antiseptics and disinfectants interspersed the air, silent beeping of machines that were probably measuring his vitals interrupted the silence. A hospital, then. Breathing, not his own.

 

Sherlock slowly blinked, his eyes irritated by the blending, way too bright hospital lights. He was indeed lying in a hospital bed, he was dressed in a gown and – there was someone sitting next to his bed. For a second his heart stopped, _John_ , he thought. He didn't know what to think about the other man, what to feel or how to react – the only thing he knew was that he _wanted_ him here, by his side.

His eyes narrowed as his eyes adjusted to the light in the room, and he took in the figure of a tall man in a suit, hunched over and fiddling about something in his hands.

 

“...Mycroft.” Sherlock finally rasped, his voice cracking. His face twitched as his brother moved to take a plastic cup from Sherlock's bedside table. "It makes no sense whatsoever to have an umbrella inside a hospital room."

“I am pleased to see you're finally awake.” Mycroft stated as he poured water into the cup. He gave Sherlock a stiff smile as he handed it to his younger brother, who snatched it from him, grimacing in pain. For a few seconds, he just drank, so greedy that he started to wonder how long he had been out.

“You've been unconscious for the better part of eight hours”, Mycroft announced before Sherlock could even ask. “You've had rather intensive surgery, but nothing too severe considering your usual standards. The bullet managed to miss any vital organs, but you should probably rest for a week. Three days, for an impatient brat like you. You lost a lot of blood.”

“I missed you, too.” Sherlock mumbled. Mycroft focused on the umbrella in his hands again, but stayed silent. Sherlock gave a small sigh.

“So, I figure I was in no imminent danger of death. What brings me the honour of her majesty, then?”

“There's something else.”

“Of course there is.”

 

Mycroft looked up again, his face carefully devoid of expression. “You think this is rather funny, do you not?”

“Well, you for certain don't, because you're worried sick about your baby brother.”

“Shut up.”

 

Sherlock's eyes carefully checked out the room. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, waiting for Sherlock to say anything. How come talking to him was always such a pain in the ass?

 

“...Where is John?” Sherlock finally asked, his voice suddenly much quieter and less imperious than before. There are few words in the English language to describe emotions so carefully concealed and masked as in the Holmes brothers' faces, but Sherlock could sense the older Holmes felt uneasy.

“Mycroft,” he repeated. “Where is John?”

 

_Was this the damsel in distress that he had originally expected? John being abducted by Moriarty, waiting for Sherlock to save him-_

“He wishes not to see you. And whatever quarrel may have led him towards such decision, it is not upon me to judge. I have concisely informed him about your condition, about the fact that you are stable and your injuries will not cause permanent damage.”

Sherlock's eyes darkened. He didn't respond, but he pressed his lips together and turned his head towards the window.

 

Mycroft waited for another minute, but Sherlock stayed silent. The older Holmes sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he was about to experience a migraine. He probably was. He certainly hadn't slept or properly taken care of himself in-

“Do you wish to talk about it?” he finally asked in a strained voice, and Sherlock's head irked towards his brother with an incredulous look on his face.

“And since when have you turned into a marriage counsellor?”

“If it's that kind of advice you require-”

“It is not.”

 

Mycroft shut his mouth. It was clear he felt uncomfortable in his skin, but it was just as clear that something was off. This was obviously not a 'normal' fight between friends, roommates or lovers, or whatever John Watson and his brother had become.

“Something is bothering you, Sherlock. I may not be the proper address to turn to in the matters of the heart-”

“Are you on drugs?”

Mycroft's mouth turned into a flat line. “I am not, dear brother. Are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course.”

A sarcastic smile, but when Sherlock didn't answer, Mycroft continued. “All I'm saying is that you may very well turn to me if you need advice or support of any kind.”

“I'm honoured.”

“You are.”

 

Mycroft gave Sherlock another long look, as if waiting for something else. Sherlock stared back with a blank face. Mycroft finally sighed, and got out of his chair.

 

He turned towards the door, but stopped with the doorknob in his hand. It was beyond him whatever incident had happened between Sherlock and John, but his brother's latest request had seriously upset him. If the doubts between the two of them were that severe, whatever incident must have occurred had been quite... intense.

“If he actually managed to manipulate any of the information present on him, I will find out. Nonetheless, let me assure you... the capacities required for such actions are far beyond those of the John Watson I am acquainted with.” Another pause. Mycroft opened the door, still lost in contemplation. John Watson had done his brother so much good, had probably saved him from an abyss of drugs and madness that Mycroft didn't even want to remember. “The John Watson I know,” he finally continued, so quietly Sherlock was barely able to understand it, “is a good man.”

 

Sherlock remained silent as his brother left the room.

 

 

***

 

Molly must have been there, Sherlock thought as he awoke a while after he had dozed off. He probably had slept off half of the day, she must have come by before her shift, but decided not to wake him. She had left flowers and a card instead, and - Sherlock's face lit up as he saw it- his cell phone. May God save Molly Hooper.

 

He nearly dropped it as he fetched it, and he cursed. His all too noisy and overprotective brother had taken care of whatever drugs the nurses administered for the pain- not enough to effectively extinguish the fire ravishing his insides, but enough to let him sleep. He wished Mycroft would just mind his own business for once in his life, then he could get the morphine he needed – every other patient would have got some in his place – and had spent the next few days in a blissful haze of ignorance. Instead, he was too tired to move or do anything productive, but his mind was going berserk.

 

 

 


	13. Where do we go from here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 Kudos, thank you so, so much!!! I'm really glad you guys seem to enjoy my story, especially since it is the first one I actually ever published. And thank you for your ongoing support! ❤️
> 
> Note: I shall emphasise, again, that I do not condone either abusive behaviours or relationships nor rape. None of this is meant to glorify any of these things. Rape is amongst the most awful things that can happen to a person, it is never deserved, it is always a trauma, and if any of you is thinking Sherlock is dealing with this way too well and it isn't much of an issue to him: let me assure you that it IS. Coping mechanisms vary from person to person, but he IS traumatised. This will come up in the following chapters, for now I guess Sherlock still believes he's coping. This is tagged as dark for a reason...

  
  
“Pleaseeee, someone just give him a hug.” - Me, watching Sherlock. Each and every time.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Three days later, and he hated Mycroft for how well he could predict each tiny detail of his life, Sherlock could leave the hospital. Pain still flared up in his chest and ribs (one of them was broken, two were cracked, but he didn't particularly care. It was a miracle that the bullet had missed the major blood vessels anyway) every time he took a breath. He came home to a flat without John Watson, that still had John's newspaper neatly folded on the kitchen table and their cups of tea next to them – everything as they had left it. Nonetheless, the rooms were empty and cold without John Watson there.  
  
For about an hour he busied himself with his laptop, checking his mail for any particularly (or even remotely, he honestly didn't care at the moment) interesting new cases, but nothing came up. He made another few inquiries he had to tend to, but after a while he realised his mind wasn't there with him. If John – whoever he was, he'd call him John – really was behind all of this, this was no ordinary case or chase. Either John was John Watson, the clumsy and kind-hearted soldier whom Sherlock had grown to appreciate (and love?), or everything was a fake. John Watson, a blonde and blue-eyed guy around John's (?) height had definitely been to the army and in Afghanistan, the official documents clearly pictured John. The injury could have been acquired anywhere. Medical training. Left-handed. Quick reader and empathic listener (or incredible actor). There were so many unknown variables in this equation, it made Sherlock's skin crawl. Whatever John Watson's past was, people always left behind clues, and inconsistencies, while they were at it. There had to be clues.  
  
But this case was different. Apart from his obvious emotional involvement – Sherlock snarled at himself – the clues, if there were any, had been created for him. These were no neglected traces of evidence left behind by an oblivious killer or maniac – this was someone who had the sole intent to deal with Sherlock Holmes. Probably. Or maybe he had just chased the only person that could probably love him away.  
  
***  
  
Doubts, and surprisingly a plethora of other, no less unpleasant emotions, came at night. During the day Sherlock usually managed to busy himself with his laptop and his inquiries, and another case Lestrade had given him, although that one wasn't too exciting in the first place. Mrs Hudson checked on him from time to time, brought tea and biscuits (not your housekeeper, but your friend) and talked to him about lovers' quarrels and whatever, he barely listened to her. Molly came by once, to check on the exit wound on his back, a rather painful and awkward scene he didn't wish to repeat. She had sat with him and talked a bit about her work, and some promising new cases, anything that wasn't in any way related to John Watson.  
  
Yes, she had seen him, she admitted when he asked her. Yes, a cup of tea would be great, thank you. Yes, John had seemed alright. No, he hadn't talked to her about Sherlock or anything that had happened. No, about nothing in particular, but he could see she was lying to him about that one.  
  
“Did you... did you two have a fight?” Molly finally asked, her voice meek and shy.  
“I was shot.”  
“Yes, but-but it wasn't John.” she hastily said. “Was it?”  
Sherlock's phone made a noise, and he threw a short glance at its screen. There was no particular expression on his face, but Molly wondered whether he was musing about the message or the answer to her question.  
“No,” Sherlock eventually stated. “Of course it wasn't John Watson.”  
  
He scuffed, put the cup aside and got up. Within a few moments he was a rush of motion, had slipped into his Belstaff coat and was preparing to leave the room.  
“Where are you going?”  
“Out. Bye.”  
  
  
With that, Sherlock was gone. Molly still stared at the door he had slammed shut behind him, wondering how he could move like that with a gunshot wound only a few days old. She also wondered many other things about Sherlock, but she would most likely never get an answer to those questions anyway. Sherlock truly was a miracle, with all its good and bad implications. She didn't expect any empathy or politeness on his side anyway, not anymore, but even for his standards, he was acting strangely.  
  
Molly got up and prepared to leave as the door opened. Mrs Hudson's head peaked inside the living room, her face lighting up as she spotted Molly.  
  
“Molly! How lovely to see you, dear!”, she smiled, and entered the room to properly greet her. “How lovely of you to come by and visit Sherlock. He's not quite himself lately, but he sure does appreciate it.”  
“Yes,” Molly answered. Before she could continue, Mrs Hudson had already gently taken her by the arm and was ushering her towards the stairs. “I have just prepared afternoon tea, if you don't mind I'd love you to sit with me. My god, I haven't seen you in ages! And an old lady like me gets lonely from time to time, you know?”  
Molly nodded, too overwhelmed by the woman's warmth and cordiality. Maybe interacting with living, talking people for once would do both of them some good.  
  
  
***  
  
_Wanna hang out? Just the two of us? Miss you._ XOXO RB  
  
***


	14. Heartbreaker

 

 

“Why are we walking like that?” Sherlock asked as he and Moriarty were casually strolling through the streets of Westminster, Moriarty's arm locked with Sherlock's. The air was cold, brisk and the sun had begun to set.

“Would you prefer I hold your hand instead?” Moriarty smirked.

“Just wondering. People might talk.” Sherlock carefully eyed his surroundings, checking for any of Moriarty's men lurking around. So far, only tourists, and businessmen on their phones, and a few lonely joggers on their way to Regent's park. 

“As if you'd care.”

“What is all of this about?”

“What, maybe I just want to spend a lovely evening with you? Have some dinner, some wine and maybe something more?”

“Not interested, I fear. In any of these options.”

“I'm hurt.”

 

They turned around another corner into a street that was a little quieter. There were fewer people on it, too, but Sherlock didn't expect Moriarty to jump or try to attack him. Not his style.

 

“So you're calling yourself Richard Brooks now?” Sherlock asked, eyeing a pair of young girls that eyed them back just as suspiciously. Moriarty tightened the embrace of their arms.

“I fear I can't deny who I _really_ am.” he exclaimed in an overly dramatic voice, his face contorting as if he might faint. And they said Sherlock was a drama queen. The two girls giggled, but finally went their way.

It wasn't as if Sherlock had expected any kind of help from Moriarty anyways. This was either an ingenious consulting criminal or a stunning actor (who wasn't dumb either).

 

“What do you know about John Watson?”

“Oh Sherlock, don't you want to talk about _us_? I'd rather we devote this lovely evening to just the two of us.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I. But oh well, I might as well tell you as much as I know. Not that I've ever been particularly interested in _him_ anyway.” He gave Sherlock a suggestive wink, and they crossed the street, Regent's Park coming into view. “Soldier with military training and close combat experience, medical training and on active duty in Afghanistan. Boring. Wounded on duty and honourably discharged due to obtained injury, which has, I presume, turned psychological. A dab of PTSD...booooring. Drinking sister and difficult relationship with his parents, which has turned him into a good Samaritan. Boooooooooooring. Absolutely devoted and in love with Sherlock Holmes. Ohhh.”

He gave Sherlock a wide-eyed look that proclaimed nothing more than absolute madness.

“You can't know that”, Sherlock said.

“Well, you can't know anything for sure, can you?”

“Yes, you can. Anything and anyone leaves some kind of proof. There are clues, there's evidence-”

“Oh, so that's what's bothering you. Conflicting evidence.”

Sherlock didn't answer, but stared straight ahead.

“Well, I may just be an actor, but let me give you some advice:-" He leaned in as if to tell a secret, his face uncomfortably close to Sherlock's neck. "Listen to your heart.”

“You're having way too much fun.”

“Why aren't you? Either way: John Watson is absolutely obsessed with you, to the point where he'd manipulate you and conceptualise a whole world just for your sake – or you had the most devoted, loving flatmate in the history of mankind and I fucked the two of you p just the tiniest bit. It's a win-win.”

“Either way, it's over now.”

“Just give him a little time. If two people are meant to be, you know?”

“Why would either Moriarty or Richard Brooks care about my private life?” Sherlock interrupted, sounding more upset than he had intended to show. None of his made any sense. Moriarty was not the kind of person to take out people for a friendly chat and advice on matters of the heart. He was definitely enjoying every moment of this – whatever sick game it was.

“Maybe I just enjoy presenting myself as an ambiguous figure? I'm an actor after all, it does give me an air of mysticism, don't you think? Makes me more fascinating, like a puzzle you just cannot solve.”

 

In the end, they ended up in a small café Sherlock hadn't ever noticed before. They had some tea, some biscuits (and Moriarty some cake, although he only ate about half of it, noting that he “had to look slim in front of the camera”) and polite conversations about nothing in particular. The whole situation was weird, and Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Was this what a date was like? Should he care? Was this, and this added a third layer to the situation, Thomas Brooks trying to play him? Or make advances?

As the streets in front of the café became increasingly devoid of people, he started to calm down just the slightest bit. Even though it was (just) Moriarty, and he had his guard up and senses alert, he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed the interaction. It was something to take his mind off other things and people that were bothering his thoughts lately. Actually, it was quite nice.

 

 

***

 


	15. Fuck Mary Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, it's been decades but I am back. I wasn't aware people were still reading this, so coming back to all your comments and lovely replies was really, really amazing. Have a new chapter. It will be painful, but that is just who I am.

When Sherlock finally entered 221B Baker Street about two hours later, the sun had long gone down and the streets were only illuminated by the street lights and a few cars driving by. Sherlock stood in the entrance for quite a while – it must have been minutes – he just stared into nothingness and touched his lips in thought. This had been one of the most awkward and irritating evenings of his life, and he had had many of those – but he had no idea what to make of this encounter. Moriarty had finally suggested taking Sherlock home, had actually done that, arms again locked with Sherlock's – Sherlock hadn't been certain if he should push the arm away or if that'd break whatever act Moriarty was staging here. He had accompanied him to the steps of 221B, but politely remained standing in front of the house, saying that “A gentleman ought to wait until the third Rendez-Vous” (before doing what exactly he didn't specify). He had quickly kissed Sherlock nonetheless, an innocent and quick kiss, but it had left Sherlock dumbfounded anyway. With a smirk that would have been charming to anyone who wasn't familiar with him, Moriarty excused himself and made his way down Baker Street.

 

When Sherlock managed to pull himself together a while later, he finally ascended the stairs. He didn't expect to find anyone back in their flat, after all John had been gone for quite a while. Who knew if he'd come back eventually – Sherlock quickly willed the thought away. He needn't even have done that, because before he had even opened the door towards their flat, he heard a noise from inside. His heart jumped for a second – was that John? Maybe John had calmed down and decided to come back? Maybe there was something between them that neither of them could get over without – The door opened. A blonde woman, smaller than him, her face full of laughter. It turned into a look of surprise as she saw Sherlock, eyeing him up and down. Making deductions, he realised.  
“You...You must be Sherlock, John's flatmate?” She greeted him, offering a hand Sherlock had no intention of taking.  
“And you are?”  
“Well, you're Sherlock Holmes. You tell me.”  
“Short-sighted nurse with a prior career in linguistics and/ or communication studies, obviously too vain to wear glasses although your eyes do not react well to contact lenses, clever and well educated and... obviously” He paused. “John's.. date?”  
“Impressive,” she said, giving him a wide smile. “I'm Mary, pleasure to meet you.” When he still made no move to grab her hand, she finally stuck it in the pocket of her coat. John peeked around the corner, eyeing both of them.  
“John..” Sherlock began, without any idea what to say. “I... I didn't expect you back here.”  
“Well, I live here.”  
“...oh.”  
Mary gave both John and Sherlock a slightly confused, nonetheless amused look. She quickly gave John a kiss on the cheek, and waved at Sherlock. “Apologies for not talking to you longer, Sherlock. But I will see you around, I believe?”  
“...I live here as well.”  
“Right. Bye, you two.” Mary gave both of them a smile that was gorgeous and at the same time made something inside of Sherlock ache. The blonde woman, Mary, put her scarf around her neck and descended the stairs, turning around for one final wave. John and Sherlock still stood in the door when the entrance door downstairs fell closed, both in silence.  
“Well, that was awkward.” John finally said as he turned around. Sherlock followed him back inside, slightly overwhelmed and confused about what and whether he ought to say something. He tried to keep his face and voice steady but hardly managed.

“You're... you're back.”  
“Yes. I live here after all.”  
“What was this about. The woman?”  
“God Sherlock, you're the world cleverest detective. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

John gave him an impatient look, but Sherlock didn't have the guts to answer. What should he say anyway? Why weren't you at the hospital? I thought you liked me? After all he had done? Have you moved on so quickly?  
Instead, he omitted all those childish and, if he admitted it, envious questions. He sounded like the awful, nagging wife in those TV shows John used to watch all the time. He remained silent instead, giving John a look that was meant to be supportive, or at least glad to see his flatmate again. It must have looked pretty pathetic.

Finally, John sighed, turned around, and went to prepare some tea.

***

He had always thought breaking someone's heart was a metaphor. You couldn't literally break someone's heart, Sherlock thought as he sat on the couch watching telly with John without actually seeing any of it. It was incredible how much it actually – literally – hurt in his chest. He had no right to be angry, or mad at John. John was free to do whatever (or whomever) he liked, he owed Sherlock no single thing. Not a nice word, not a gesture or a kiss, nothing of all the things John had ever done for him. Sherlock didn't deserve a man like John Watson anyway, maybe John had finally come to realise that. Maybe John had decided to move on. Sherlock shouldn't be surprised, really. Not after all the things he'd said. It broke his heart either way.

He had never been one for crying, or emotional outbursts, and he certainly wouldn't start now. Nonetheless, keeping his composure demanded effort of herculean proportions, and he was barely able to keep up the performance. He finally excused himself, at which John gave him a weird look, and went to bed.

***

Could you talk to me? SH

What do you need? Are you okay?

Please just talk.

***


	16. What you need

John really didn’t know what he enjoyed more. Mary, Mary was clever, full of wit and deceit, and although he had in a way hired her – had known her for years, yes, she worked for him after all – being with her really was enjoyable. There were few people who he felt were able to follow his schemes, and fewer even he could talk to about such plans. Mary was intelligent, she was beautiful, and she was cunningly evil. There was little more he could want - they fucked with a sense of urgency but without any of the fuss other women made about sex, it was amazing, and it was meaningless. 

Mary was not sure how she felt about the whole Sherlock-ordeal. In the beginning, she had thought John’s obsession with Sherlock would be a fleeting crush, some guy to shag and then forget – up until then she hadn’t even been aware that John was into men as well. Maybe she should have seen it coming, John’s possessiveness and obsessiveness once he wanted something (or someone) and Sherlock being brilliant (enough) and… lonely. Most people would have found it quite sad. 

Thank God she was not most people. 

***

Sherlock had a lot of thoughts he did not want to have. 

***

It was in the middle of the night when John’s phone rang, and he didn’t even manage to open his eyes before grunting into the phone. It was the darkest black outside – as dark as Westminster ever got – if this was not important someone would suffer. 

For a moment, he only heard heavy breathing on the other end of the line, until the person cleared their throat and croaked John’s name. Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, what is it? Are you all right?”

On the other end of the line, Sherlock was silent. John finally managed to pry his eyes open, looking around his room.   
“Where are you, Sherlock?” Baby steps.   
“In my room.”  
“Why don’t you-“  
“This is fine.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, sharp enough to make John shut up. Sherlock, on the other end, seemed to notice, too, and repeated “It’s fine” in a much softer voice. “There’s something you ought to know.”

John nodded, although he was aware Sherlock couldn’t see him. The silence told him Sherlock was probably choosing his words very carefully, debating with himself whether to utter them at all. 

“My first boyfriend I had in college.” He finally said, so suddenly that it startled John. John nodded. He knew that. “My only boyfriend. Victor.” He knew that too. “He studied physics, and was surprisingly intelligent, and… bearable. We went out for almost a year.”   
John made an acknowledging little sound to signal he was listening, not sure what to say. This was going somewhere, but he had no idea why Sherlock was telling him about all this. As far as John knew, Sherlock and this guy had dated for a year, until Sherlock had broken it off, and then they had never talked to each other again. He hadn’t cared to get more details. He didn’t mind. 

“What happened then?” he finally asked, when Sherlock didn’t manage to find any words.   
“I broke up with him.” A short, clipped answer, as if he didn’t want to talk about it.   
“Why?” John did.   
“He… John, I need you to understand I am not the most sociable or… I am not an extraordinarily affable person.”  
“I hadn’t noticed.” John hadn’t meant to say it, really hadn’t, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. There was a scoff at the other end of the line.   
“I am also not very affectionate.”  
“Hum.”  
“Victor was.”  
“Hm.”  
Silence ensued. John was starting to wonder if Sherlock had dropped a hint he had missed, something of enormous importance. Had Victor been too affectionate? Too-  
“Sherlock… He didn’t – He didn’t do anything you were not comfortable with, did he?”  
“He did.” Sherlock’s voice was still strained, but at the same time he seemed relieved he didn’t have to describe any of his previous encounters in detail. “I went along with it.”  
“Sherlock, that’s… that’s awful.” John’s cock twitched in his pyjama bottoms, but he hardly even noticed.   
“It was.”  
“…Thank you for telling me.”  
“You’re welcome. I just thought…” Sherlock trailed off at the other end. For a while, he said nothing, as John contemplated the new information, turned and twisted it in his mind. Sherlock’s voice finally interrupted his voice.   
“Good night, John.”  
“Good night, Sherlock.”

***

John Watson felt like the mightiest man in the world. Sherlock’s confession had been an unexpected delight, something that fuelled his fantasies and somehow, in a way he didn’t completely understand, made him desire Sherlock even more. He wanted to possess that man, bend him like a doll. Sherlock was already a broken man, had been before he had known John Watson. John just took pleasure in toying with the pieces. 

Sometimes, for a minute or so, when he sat in his chair and watched Sherlock doing whatever it was that Sherlock did, he felt an emotion akin to sadness creeping into his mind. He contemplated that mixture of melancholia, sadness and pity for a while. It didn’t ever amount to much. He loved Sherlock, he had to have him. 

For a while, he had contemplated getting married to Mary, just to see Sherlock’s face when he would announce it. He could even make him his best mate or something, it was such a delicious idea. But not even he was that cruel. 

***

Sherlock was many things, but a passable actor was not one of them. He tried to hide his animosity towards Mary, he really did, but then again, he had never been good at hiding his emotions. John and Mary shot each other knowing glances, and continued being the sweetest and loveliest couple the world had ever seen. 

***

Sherlock seemed itchy. His movements were jerky, too fast, too shaky, and John knew it was not only due to the fact that he slept even less frequently than usual. He was not back on drugs, but as close to it as he had ever been since John had known him. 

“Sherlock, you need to take better care of yourself.” He said, his voice silent and just the slightest bit sad as he handed Sherlock a plate of food. “You’re not eating enough. Not sleeping.”  
For a moment, there was a flicker of something in Sherlock’s eyes as he gazed up at John. Something bright, something appreciative – hope, John realised. Sherlock seemed to have hoped to trigger some sort of reaction from John, back that night, when he had told him about Victor. Maybe he had hoped opening up would show John that the issue he took with intimacy was …valid. Had hoped that it was. That he was not so… unresponsive to John because of anything John had done. Whatever meaning Sherlock had tried to convey, John was still seeing Mary, and Sherlock seemed to have resigned himself to beating himself up about his own naivety, except for those tiny specks of hope that sometimes flared up in his eyes whenever John showed him kindness. Such wonder. 

John knelt down in front of Sherlock, who kept his eyes on the plate of food in his lap. Finally, John put a hand at Sherlock’s knee, as carefully as he could. It was clear to both of them that Sherlock was just as starved of touch as he was scared of it, and it sent a sweet shiver through John’s heart when Sherlock’s eyes darted to meet John’s. He didn’t flinch, he was probably not even breathing – just attentive, huge eyes scanning the man in front of him. 

“Sherlock. How can I help you?” Sherlock’s nose scrunched at that, but the grimace disappeared as fast as it had come. “Please, let me help.”  
Sherlock’s hands were shaking, just the tiniest bit. He pulled in a shaky breath, his eyes returning to the floor. He tried to say something, but although his mouth moved, nothing came out. His hands curled into fists at his side. John continued to regard him attentively, and finally took one of Sherlock’s hands into his own. He pressed a gentle kiss to it, watching Sherlock shudder. 

“You know, even though I am with Mary now-“ just the mention of her name seemed to pain Sherlock, judging by the way his eyelids fluttered, “I still care about you a great deal, Sherlock. I need you to know that.”  
Sherlock nodded, clearly not understanding. John kissed Sherlock’s hand again, closing his eyes. 

After a long silence with no indication of any reaction from Sherlock, John continued his lips' gentle ministrations, musing as much to Sherlock as to himself.   
“I am not a good man, Sherlock.”  
“You are.”  
“I am not. I hurt people.”  
Sherlock was silent at that, because he knew John was right.   
“But please, believe me, Sherlock. You may be an arrogant asshole from time to time, but you are the most important person in the world to me.”  
Sherlock couldn’t help a shaky smile at that, even though his eyes were moist.

“Do you love her, John?” he suddenly asked, his voice soberer than John had expected. John gave him a perplexed stare in return.   
“Mary? I don’t know.” He admitted, and then, after a thoughtful pause “I think I could.”

***

A silence settled over Baker Street 221B after that encounter, but it was a peaceful one. Overtime at the clinic kept John too engaged to see Mary that much, at the moment, and Sherlock seemed oddly content with that. John sometimes wondered why he still bothered with the annual flu-season and children with running noses, elderly people with their painful hips and joints and hypochondriacs with their perpetual pains and aches. He could do anything he wanted, there was no one to stop him really, but somehow this was what his mind relied on to achieve peace. Sometimes John Watson was an enigma to John Watson himself. 

***


End file.
